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Story: One Boiling Summer

I laughed through my tears as we flipped through the pages together. There was a photo of me on a tire swing, one of me and all the Goodson boys piled onto a hay ride, another of me and my mom baking cookies. Each picture tugged at a million heartstrings within me.

“These are precious memories,” I whispered.

“They are,” Mama said softly. “And no fire can take them from you.”

As we flipped further, a strange pattern emerged. In so many of the group shots—birthday parties, school events, even simple backyard barbecues—Hudson was there.

Always in the background. Always glancing at me.

In one photo, when we were in our twenties, Carson had his arm around me at a Fourth of July picnic, both of us grinning like fools. But a few feet away, Hudson stood with a plate ofribs and a barely concealed look on his face that made my chest clench.

“He was always there,” I murmured.

Mama smiled knowingly. “Always. That boy’s been carrying a torch for you for some time.”

“I never saw it.”

“You weren’t ready to.” Mama stood and kissed the top of my head. “It’s your life, sweetie. You can either head back to New York, or you can stay. People would understand. Either way, you always have a place in this family. You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you like. And I do hope you’ll stay. There comes a time when a person needs to put down roots.”

She left me in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. I kept flipping through, studying each photo, my eyes wet with every memory.

The final photo stopped me cold.

Hudson, in his fire academy uniform, standing tall and proud on graduation day. His grin was bright, eyes full of determination. A man who ran into fires, born with heroism in his blood. Because being a hero was just who he was.

Could I love someone like that? Someone I could lose in a heartbeat?

Was I brave enough?

My phone buzzed with a text.

Archer: When you’re ready to rebuild your house, I’d be honored to design it. My gift to you. Thank you for everything you did for me in New York.

My heart swelled. I looked back at the photo of Hudson, then down at Archer’s message.

Maybe I was ready to stay. Not just to rebuild a house, but to rebuildmy life.

Right here. In Poppy Valley.

The next morning,I stirred slowly, not quite ready to face a new day, not when the fog of last night still hung heavy over me. But the scent of coffee and sweet bread wafted up the stairs, and I knew I couldn’t hide forever.

I slipped into the soft sweats and oversized t-shirt Mama had left on the dresser, complete with fuzzy socks that looked like they’d been knit with love. Padding quietly down the stairs, I half-expected the kitchen to be empty, the house quiet, but it wasn’t.

Voices drifted from the dining room, some familiar, others less so.

When I rounded the corner, I froze. Emme was standing near the table, surrounded by half a dozen women. I recognized them from around town, including one I’d overheard gossiping about me at the grocery store. My stomach dropped.

Emme saw me and stepped forward, wringing her hands but offering a tentative smile. “Lacey... we heard about the fire. And, well, we wanted to help.”

She gestured to several large shopping bags piled near the door. “We gathered clothes—things we thought might fit. There’s more on the way. We’ve spread the word across town. Some of my aunts’ husbands are already loading up spare furniture and household goods people are donating to you. Nothing fancy, but it’ll help for now.”

I blinked, overwhelmed. “Why would you do this for me?”

One of her aunts cleared her throat. “Look, things get said in small towns. But when it comes down to it, when one of our own has a need, we take care of them.”

My throat tightened. I blinked away tears, refusing to cry in front of them.

Emme stepped closer, her eyes kind. “Can we talk? Just us?”